


The Righteous Man

by bonerthatiusedtoknow



Series: Character studies, drabbles, and a bit o' this'n that [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark Dean Winchester, Drabble, Gen, Headcanon, Hell Fic, Mild Gore, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonerthatiusedtoknow/pseuds/bonerthatiusedtoknow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Righteous Man

When he breaks there aren’t trumpets or the hellish screams of scores of demons, no earthquake to crumble the walls of brimstone and sulfur, no searing wave of fire, or howling of hellhounds in the distance. There is only Dean and Alistair, the blade in his gut, the fury in his veins, and the agony tearing him apart again and again.

The possibilities in Hell are endless, unrestrained by the confines of reality and flesh and bone. Here, when all but the bones have been stripped away, layer by layer, and every ounce of his life force have bled into the ground beneath him, Dean’s body blinks back into existence pristine and renewed, a fresh canvas for Alistair’s razor, and the torment begins anew. 

He knows the pain of amputated limbs, the feel of missing lungs without the relief of death that would normally follow, and the constriction of a bare hand around his still beating heart. And yet, the day he breaks, it is none of those things that do him in. His skin has been peeled back like a discarded suit jacket, the thick sheet of muscle beneath carved away, and it hurts, of course it does, but he’s had worse, much worse. Alistair’s hands are elbow deep in Dean’s abdominal cavity—stinking of blood and sulfur and the filth of hell, stomach acid, and intestinal juices—when he makes the offer; the same offer he’s made at the end of every day for what passes for thirty years down here: pick up the blade, and the torturing will stop. Dean is prepared to tell him to take his proposition and shove it up his ass, as he’s done since day one, because he’ll endure this for the rest of eternity before he’ll rip into another lost soul.

But something catches his eye, a man being put on the Rack, hooks threaded through great chunks of flesh. He’s familiar beneath the blood and grime, though hell has warped Dean’s memories and fogged his vision. It takes him a moment to place it: the distinct placement of the man’s eyes, the tint of his skin, and the jut of his chin. But he does, and he doesn’t know how or why at this particular moment he’s been faced with this person, only that he has. He remembers the light leaving his brother’s eyes, the blood pouring from the wound in his back, the way Sam’s body had slumped loose and motionless in Dean’s arms, and selling his soul to bring him back. Most of all, though, he remembers this man, the one strung up only feet from him, and the bloody knife in his hand and how it had glinted maliciously in the moonlight. And suddenly, Dean doesn’t fucking care anymore about the consequences. He doesn’t care if it makes him weak or cruel, if he’s crossing some line never meant to be crossed; he’s already in hell what difference does it make? He only cares about being the source of his screams. Only cares about making him bleed, making him hurt, making him beg for mercy—for death—and then denying him both. And he can do that, he can do anything he wants.

With his eyes fixed firmly on his brother’s murderer, Dean reaches out, plucking the knife from Alastair’s hand, and says, “Sign me up.”


End file.
